


Diver

by wordswithinmoments



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Reflection, Self-Discovery, i swear it's a happy ending this time, i swear on me mums grave, pls read this if u are confused about taking risks in general LOL, u are very confused ab making decisions pretty much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:22:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25804324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordswithinmoments/pseuds/wordswithinmoments
Summary: For you, decisions have always resulted in one, then two, then twenty steps back from the jump you know you want to take, but never find the courage to do so. Miya Atsumu was one of those decisions, and it baffles you how he makes the edge seem so inviting.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Reader, Miya Atsumu/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 98





	Diver

**Author's Note:**

> this was created because i wanted to explore more of atsumu and the y/n i headcanon's character. also i listened to elijah who until i eventually thought of this >:3 (crossposted on my tumblr! myelocin)

Diver

You remember standing at the edge of the cliff and thinking about how big and beautiful the world looked at age seven. You think back to the words your grandfather tells you when he sits on the ground next to you and begins to tell the familiar tale of the boy who lived life too scared to leap. You don’t think it was a true story; some elements changed every other time the same story was retold but you listened with rapt attention either way.

Every summer when you visited your grandfather in that little house by the cliff hours away from the rush the city brought, more than half of your days were spent sitting by the edge watching the clouds chase and envelop one another. You’d watch as the blue moved into gold, then orange, then red, then back to blue—and finally dive into black. There was _never_ a day where the chase looked exactly the same.

At nine, you still thought the world looked too vast and beautiful and now you think it was because there was still so much you didn’t know. At sixteen, you remembered seeing more streaks of pink along the horizon in the distance but when you look back at the photos now—it was still really just swirls of red and kisses of orange. Maybe that was the summer you first felt love, because the world you saw in those days were through the rose colored lenses that only you wore.

When your grandfather would ask you why you preferred to sit out by the edge instead of run in the field with the kids you knew nearby you only shrugged and said you didn’t want to miss the stories in the sky later that day. Some days, he’d sit next to you and you’d listen to the story of the boy who never leaped again, but during the last few years of his life when he became too frail for the world, he’d only ruffle your hair and go back inside the house.

There wasn’t a particular reason either; no dramatics that told a heartfelt backstory towards your infatuation with the sky, or a long spill about how you love letting the sounds of the waves crashing silence your thoughts—it was quite the opposite, really. Even when your first love told you it wasn’t working out and you spent the entire evening and the next crying over a story ended, you still sat and watched the colors changing with the expression of wonder that stayed constant since you were a child.

 _“I still care for you,”_ you remember him saying and his voice clear in your head doesn’t fight over the sounds of the waves crashing on jagged boulders below.

 _“—we’re just not meant for each other,”_ he says again but you don’t feel the need to look away from the sky because the sun’s beginning to dip into the horizon and the violets are starting to paint swirls in the sky.

 _“I don’t think I ever loved you, (y/n),”_ you hear along with the cry of a seagull somewhere on your left but you only let out the sigh you’ve held in when the show is over and the black curtains cover the sky. You remember closing your eyes to try to search for that twinge of pain you always read about when your first love is over. But, when you breathe in, you only hear the water below roar. When you breathe out, you hear your grandfather’s call from the house behind you.

That night when you stood up to leave, you dusted the dirt off of your pants and stepped closer to the edge; you weren’t going to jump but you wanted to step into that line of _uncertainty_ to feel that rush.

The feeling you always get when you’re tipping your seat back and you let your fingers graze off of the table you’re supporting yourself with—and you’re dipping into the territory of whether you’ll fall forward or backward. Whether the fall either ways could mean good, or bad.

 _“Can’t we work this out?”_ is what you knew you wanted to try to say in the moment he turned his back. And then the first step towards him became one, then two, then three—before your hand stopped short of grabbing his shoulder because you realize you don’t _want_ to say it.

Maybe because you were sixteen and the chemistry test you had to take next period was a more important thought than this, or maybe because this was the kind of puppy love where it as quick as it started—so you didn’t want to tarnish the final chapters with an ugly fight. But, _really_ , you began to think, as your hand curled back into a fist and you watched him with dry eyes turn the corner and disappear, _you just don’t have a reason to want to work it out._

So then as the bell rang, you turned to take a step that went from one, to two, to three—and then eventually _six_ steps back.

Six steps away from the edge where you let yourself be dangled by uncertainty.

-

The strange part is you don’t remember what began shifting afterwards; when you lost sight of the horizon you spent years losing yet finding yourself in all at once.

After that night, for the years that led up to now it felt like there was never a balance when it came the climax of your decision making. Every time the atmosphere tensed and you feel your gut twist with the pressure of the outcome, your brain is suddenly creating loopholes to mend the situation and your body is already in motion—every single time moving one, to two, to twenty steps away from the drop. That way, you could rock your heels to the side or tip the back of your chair as far back as possible without the need to pull back because you _know_ the steady ground would _always_ break your fall.

You weren’t sure if you necessarily enjoyed it but the cliff by your grandfather’s house doesn’t look the same anymore. This time, you’re sitting in a chair on the porch, a heavy distance away from the pull of gravity down below. _Because it’s safe,_ you reason, but the horizon from your spot doesn’t look quite the same. Peering at the strokes of colors in the 6pm sky through cracks in the porch’s rooftop makes the world feel so _little._ You hear the sound of the TV running inside the house instead of the water roaring below and you _know_ it isn’t the same.

But when the sun peeks in finality before diving the world into dark, you stand at the edge of the porch like you did at the edge of the cliff so many times before.

One foot hovering over the ground below and you know your balance is tipping, but you don’t feel anything. There isn’t a hitch in your breath and the feeling of weightlessness and heaviness simultaneously nipping at your skin.

You sigh in blankness as you thrust your body forward and let yourself dive.

The ground is only two feet below you.

-

In your mid-twenties, Miya Atsumu came into your life in a whirlwind of laughter and expressions.

He wasn’t really _that_ spectacular. Sure, Atsumu could twirl a pencil like the honor roll kids as well as he could land a service ace, but that was kind of it.

How the two of you became close friends was always a wonder to you as well. You knew his twin brother—Osamu, after frequenting his onigiri shop every day for lunch, but your interactions with him were mostly limited to the “hi”, “how are you”, “thanks”, and “goodbye”.

Atsumu was, well, _interesting_ to talk to because of all the expressions that substituted some verbal cues in the conversation.

It took getting to know him for about a year and joining him in the last minute road trips he pulled with you to realize how much Atsumu embodied _uncertainty._

He was like the push and the pull of the wind when you’re standing at that edge again. Like somewhere between the moments of unfiltered fear from plunging down into the ocean you _know_ you can’t swim in, and that step back of reasoning that tells you a two more steps further means two more steps safer.

He was neither of those, but at the same time, made you feel the magnitude of _both_ simultaneously. Atsumu, to you, was the cliff, the rocking wind, the steady ground, and the plunge below.

And it was _frustrating_ because you couldn’t read him at all.

-

When he asked you one day if you wanted to join him for dinner, this time, just the two of you while the apples of his cheek blushed a visible shade of red despite the dimmed lighting of the sky—you felt your gut churn in uncertainty.

For a while you’ve felt he wanted to push the boundaries of your friendship into a territory more unknown to the both of you, but you thought it would just stop at the experimental prodding. You weren’t blind. You felt how his eyes would trail your profile when he thought your attention was too engrossed in a book, knew that the unmarked box of chocolates were from him because he wasn’t subtle in hiding the special instructions written on the bottom of the box. You saw the triumphant spark in his eye when you told him the gift he gave you on your birthday was _exactly_ what you wanted even if he just shrugged and said he guessed lucky.

And that’s the thing—Atsumu was _painfully_ obvious. He wasn’t explicit about his intentions—he was just obvious; you know he wasn’t dumb enough to leave all these hints and expect you to still _not_ know so that frustrated you even further. Did he _want_ you to find out? Did _you_ want to find out?

“Do ya think you wanna get some dinner tonight?” he quips beside you, “—just us two?” he adds, finishing awkwardly as you two come to a halt in front of the train station.

You think about his offer; you _really_ do. The feeling in your gut doesn’t go away and your left foot is subconsciously rocking backwards. _One step back._

“Maybe next time,” you hear yourself say. Atsumu’s deflating in front of you and his right hand rests on the back of his head while he shoves the left into the pocket of his jeans.

 _Two steps,_ “I’d love to—“ you continue, “but I may miss the last train and I don’t really wanna take a taxi tonight.”

Atsumu’s nodding his head saying, “ _Of course! Of course. Yeah, definitely. Next time!”_ And in a way you’re thankful he doesn’t mention the fact that he could always drive you back instead of letting you take a taxi.

 _Three steps,_ as you wave at him from the top steps of the station’s exit.

 _Four steps, “_ For sure next time!” you call out as he waves at your retreating figure with a smile. Neither of you really have faith on when _next time_ will be, nor were sure if either of you believed it in the first place.

It’s when the train doors close and you’re holding on the railing where it dawns on you that you just took about 20 more steps back.

-

Two weeks after Atsumu’s offer of a dinner date was when Bokuto comes to you to say that he understands why you rejected the offer.

“You and him are just _too_ different from each other,” he says like he made a profound discovery and not like he’s commenting on your love life.

“Aren’t opposites supposed to attract?” you ask.

“Not all the time,” Bokuto answers almost immediately and you nod your head choosing to not expand on the topic while your mind begins to whirl at his words.

On the bright side, you were glad neither you nor Atsumu spoke much about it. The days where you’d spend the afternoons with the team until practice ended, if nobody wanted to catch dinner the two of you would eventually just part ways at the train station he walked you to every night.

“I could always drive you home, ya know, I’m a good driver,” he says when you search through your bag for your PASMO card.

“I live in the opposite way you’re going, ‘Tsumu,” you laugh, albeit still appreciative at his offer.

“I know,” he replies and rattles his keys in his hands.

You’re still digging through your bag as you look for the card you know you must have left at home before you finally sigh and look at him looking at you holding out his keys.

“C’mon, (Y/n), I won’t speed I swear!” Atsumu laughs as he leads the way to the parking lot.

-

A few more weeks pass and you’re glad no one mentions the fact that you follow Atsumu into the parking lot every time practice ends. The day after he drove you home for the first time, you flashed the PASMO card you _made sure_ to have with you this time and told him _thank you_ for dropping you off the day before. He only rolled his eyes as he grabbed your wrists and pulled you in the car with him.

In hindsight, you _could_ have said no and waved him off like usual, but your feet were matching the steps in his before you could even process what you were doing. He just drove you home, made small talk, and asked about your days most of the time—so all in all it was pleasant.

And you lived in the west side of town so drive always meant that the both of you had a front seat view to the sky’s art show. One thing you noticed (and appreciated) about Atsumu was the duality in his focus.

First hand, you’ve seen up close the intensity of his focus during his serves. The air would whip itself into a deafening silence at the drop of his hand and his eyes steeled over as fast as the sounds came to a halt—it was _eerie_ , almost. In the way that sent chills down your spine and admiration bubble in the pits of your stomach. Then, as quick as the ball slams on the spot of the ground he aimed towards—the yell of triumph he’d express and the smile that would break into his face would overflow from his whole being. Like exhaling shakily after a sharp intake of breath—Atsumu was _intense._

But, Atsumu, you think as you peek at him looking at the skies in front of him, was also serene. The kind of focus that pulled you in all the right ways. Like the gentle teacher you had from elementary who would coax you softly to focus sounding out the words in the passage you had trouble pronouncing. His hands were steady on the wheel, at 10 and 2 and the car would slowly come to a stop at every red light instead of the sharp lurch your body moves into when you press the brake a little too harshly. He only sometimes put music in the car—he told you he prefers to have your voice as company instead of hearing about the weather from the radio.

It surprised you, but at this point Atsumu brought nothing in your life _but_ surprises. Then again, it wasn’t necessarily a _bad_ thing—you were just used to feeling the ground before you fell so his uncertainty was still very much of an unmarked territory for you.

-

“Is it something about me?” he asked when the two of you exited the car and stood outside the entrance to your apartment building.

You know what he’s talking about, but you opt to stay silent and look at him with your head tilted instead because you already feel the urge to take one step back.

He’s still looking at you even as the passing moments are stretching into an awkward silence so he sighs and shoves his hands back in his pockets—something he does when he’s _nervous,_ you noticed—and waved you off when you opened your mouth to try to retaliate. You’re thankful because you aren’t exactly sure _what_ it was you were going to say anyway.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he says as he turns.

“See ya tomorrow?”

He waits for you to nod and wave a goodbye at him, which he first smiles at, before he starts the car and drives away.

-

His question “ _doesn’t keep you up at night_ ,” is what you try to convince yourself when it’s 2:05 am on a Tuesday night and all you’ve done so far is toss and turn in bed. To prove your own point, you’ve sat up and turned the bedside lamp on while you scroll through some unopened emails on your laptop.

Halfway into retyping the same email you _know_ you’ve been staring at for the past hour, Atsumu’s contact photo chimes in your phone in the form of a text message.

“ _you up?”_ it reads from the notification bar and you automatically shut your laptop close, turn off the lamp, and throw your covers over your head.

“No,” you reply out loud and you internally groan because of how ridiculous you’re being.

Your thoughts from the night before still remain in your head as you’re sitting on the bench beside the court later that afternoon as you type away at your laptop. It’s still the same email you never replied to last night, but you try to ignore that. You also ignore the fact that you’ve kept count of how many times the ball slammed on the opposite side of the net when Atsumu practiced his serves.

You don’t notice it when Bokuto takes a seat next to you and looks over your shoulder at the email you’re not even halfway through typing.

“That’s the same email opened since this morning,” he points out and you groan before turning to face and quickly shush him.

He’s laughing when he takes a seat next to you.

“You know,” he begins, “I think you’re just scared to feel something for Atsumu.”

You close your laptop—the draft of your email unsaved, like it had _any_ coherent content anyway.

“Bo, you’re being silly,” you reply knocking your shoulder against his in laughter.

“You’re avoiding the conversation, (y/n),” he laughs back and you wave him off towards the court in laughter when the coach calls for him. He stretches when he stands back up and tells you, “We’ll talk about this later because I think you need it,” before jogging off to the other side of the gym.

Inwardly, you heave another sigh, because this was one of the times where Bokuto’s being more serious. You had to give him credit—the duality in his personality and harsh line when he switched from jesting to seriousness was impressive. Bokuto Koutarou wasn’t smart in many aspects of the domestic parts of life—he didn’t understand taxes, or why you needed to change the oil often, but he had a way of looking through the layers people build around themselves.

At first, it caught you off guard because two weeks after you met you had only been sitting outside a convenience store watching him lick the melted parts of his ice cream on his hands when he suddenly turns to you and says, _“(Y/n), I wish you would take risks more. You’re too cautious.”_

He never brought it up again but every time he chose to tell you something—it was _always_ something you knew, never acknowledged, but _needed_ to hear.

So when Atsumu waves at you and shouts that he’ll just shower and be out in thirty minutes, you ignore the urge to step back, and smile at him instead.

You’re thinking about Bokuto’s words again as you listen to Atsumu yell something at Sakusa from inside the locker room.

_You’re too different from each other._

You suppose there are differences, especially in the way you address your friends—Atsumu’s not afraid to clap your back while he laughs while you choose to keep your hands to yourself. He’s not afraid to let his intentions be known while you try to wrestle with your thoughts every time you’re shifting closer to the edge.

You could always walk away, you tell yourself every day, but every day you also choose to not do that. You know day by day and sunset after sunset you watch with Atsumu you’re nearing that edge again—and you want nothing more than take twenty more steps back but each day he offers you a new joke that you genuinely laugh at you know it’s a couple centimeters closer to where you’re afraid of going.

Bokuto’s right, _you’re different from each other_ , but you know deep down that you’re alike in so many ways. When Atsumu talks about what he wants to do accomplish in life outside of volleyball, he talks with such a childish wonder in the _certainty_ of the tone of his voice. At times, he was stubborn to the core—just like you were, and you realize that would clash between the both of you some day but Atsumu smiling as he’s jogging towards you has you realizing that you don’t really mind at all.

“Ready to go?” he asks and you could only nod as you follow him out the door.

Bokuto’s looking at you and giving you a thumbs up which you nervously return with a smile of your own.

During the car ride back home, you’re thankful that Atsumu chooses to flip on the radio this time; you didn’t plan on telling much of a story, and your thoughts are too jumbled up with _everything_ for you to even settle with small talk.

“You good?” he asks, then looks over at you at the red light. You nod yes and shift the bag sitting in your lap.

“The sky looks pretty today,” you begin, “—the sunset today looks like the ones I grew up seeing when I was a kid at my grandfather’s by the coast.”

Atsumu hums, but it’s still heard over the low volume of the car’s radio, “You should take me to see one day.”

Your gut churns and you curse yourself when you habitually chose to stay silent.

“I don’t mean it like I’m inviting myself there, (Y/n)—“

“It’s okay, you should visit with me next time,” you reply then turn to watch his expression shift from flustered to surprise from his profile. You’re watching him with baited breath and your heart thumping can almost be heard when the radio dips into a silence in the commercial.

The light switches to green and Atsumu eases his foot off of the break as the car slowly gains momentum before he’s nodding his head and saying a soft, “Yeah. Sure. Totally.”

It’s quite uncharacteristic for him to be so muted with his replies, but you suppose these are one of the similarities you’re discovering you have with Atsumu. He’s confident and barks out his comments when his emotions are running high, but at the moment you know the both of you are tiptoeing around that line of uncertainty at the moment.

When his pointer figure taps the steering wheel in an unknown rhythm, a nervous habit of his, you feel yourself slightly relax. The difference this time from that hallway breakup you had when you were sixteen was _both_ of you were at the same page. That boy who said he didn’t love you let the certainty in his intentions be known in the way you could already anticipate the long term ending for. There was nothing more to be uncovered—and you didn’t find the push to dive down for more.

This, with _Atsumu,_ was a different story. You had curiosity with the unclarity. You _craved_ to unravel his truth. 

Truthfully, every decision you’ve made so far had you already seeing the outcome—that’s why every decision you’ve made felt like you were only jumping to a ground two or three feet under you.

With Atsumu, you’ve come to realize that he personified the edge. At the same time, he was the push and the pull of the wind when you’re balancing yourself between curiosity and reason. You know the frustration you feel when you can’t read him comes from the fact that you’re only seeing him from the surface. You see licks of who he is with every slam of the ball and every spark in his eye. 

But just when you feel that knot in your stomach, you allow reason to cloud your desire to jump into the blurred lines of variability— Every. Single. Time.

And it frustrates you because twenty steps back have become _too_ comfortable for you to try to leave. You hated it, but you knew what was waiting for you every time, so you learned to find the comfort in it.

The truth is, you’ve always had the curiosity towards what it felt like to plunge. Like the story your grandfather would tell you—it ended with the boy dying by the edge he never found the curiosity to jump in, surrounded by the questions that ultimately died with him. It was a pitiful end, and up till now you believe the entire story could have been avoided. You _know_ you’re always thinking about the dive and what comes _with_ it, but never found quite the push that’d lead you to want to throw your body forward and _seek._

You _know_ Bokuto always had a point in the passing comments he tells you when you least expect it. Bokuto presented them to you in forms of declarations not even in questions.

The sky in front of you is the same sky you stood under when you dangled your feet over the edge, fearless, years ago. _Atsumu_ feels like the push and pull of the wind, and the tug of gravity under your soles when he looks at you as you stand in front of your apartment building.

You’re not in the cliff side this time but you see the horizon you forgot you loved when Atsumu shoves his hands in his pockets and offers you a smile.

You hear the cry of the waves below and the call of the seagulls to your left when Atsumu says, “About earlier, you don’t have to worry about it—I was just jokin.”

“ _You’re scared to feel something for Atsumu,”_ you hear Bokuto tell you when you itch to take a step back, then, _“I wish you’d take more risks.”_

“I wanna take the risk,” you say out loud and Atsumu looks at you quizzically, before softening his eyes when he realizes what you’re trying to say.

And you could almost laugh because _of course_ he understands what you mean. Atsumu knew more than he let on and you could laugh again at the mirroring of your personalities. It was opposite and identical at the same time: identical like the both of you understanding each other’s metaphors without explanation, and opposite in the way he always addresses them while you do, well, the _opposite_ of that.

“I wanna jump,” you say even if it doesn’t make sense because you’re confident the message will reach him all the same.

Atsumu’s beaming and you think it looks like the sun that’s looked at you from the horizon for years. When he takes your hands in his, you inhale yet feel breathless because the balls of your feet feel weightless and your body is leaning forward.

And when the clouds in the sky blend with the painting and Atsumu leans forward, you feel gravity take you—

Then, you’re diving.

-

**Author's Note:**

> let's yodel together on twt! @honeymakki


End file.
